


every time i see you falling (i get down on my knees and pray)

by middlecyclone



Category: Glee, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Historical RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always the Opposite Sex, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Bechdel Test Pass, F/F, F/M, Genderswap, POV Second Person, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 06:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlecyclone/pseuds/middlecyclone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sometimes you think you love her, until you remember that you're a demon, and demons can't love anything: not chocolate, not cats, not even themselves, and certainly not angels."</p><p>In which Santana is a demon, Quinn is an angel, a lot of other characters are a lot of historical figures, and the author commits sacrilege.</p>
            </blockquote>





	every time i see you falling (i get down on my knees and pray)

**Author's Note:**

> You're probably not supposed to recast the Bible and/or the history books with the characters from Glee, but I totally, totally did. I really hope this weird messed-up little fic is worth the lifetime in hell it has earned me.
> 
> On a different note, none of the fictional works referenced in this story are my intellectual property. Additionally, this story spends an awful lot of time not treating complex theological issues with the gravity they deserve, so if you are the type of person to be offended by such things, please do not read this story.
> 
> Title comes from "Bizarre Love Triangle" by New Order.

You do the whole angel thing for a while, hang out up there in heaven with the fluffy white clouds and the fucking lyres and choirs and shit. But that gets boring, and there are way too many fucking rules for your liking. You figure, the Big Guy gave you free will or some shit, and you are going to fucking exercise that right however the hell you want.

So when you turn your back on the grace of God, it isn't so much a Fall as it is a triple back tuck from those clouds down into hell, and maybe, slightly, during the long trip down, you regret it a little. After all, it wasn't the purity and eternal happiness you hated as much as it was all the rules, and hell didn't have any purity or happiness at all, but it definitely had rules.

Still, the torture pits aren't half as awful as choir practice, and if you're not particularly good at handling a pitchfork, you're not half as hopeless at the stabbing as you were at playing that stupid lyre. After a while, you really like the stabbing. Stabbing is fun.

Of course, none of that seems to matter much anymore once you get assigned to earth. Because angels are boring as all get out, and demons are almost as tedious, but humans? Humans are interesting. At last, something manages to grab your attention for longer than ten minutes, and it's the newly (evolved? created? who cares?) Homo sapiens sapiens.

You've always been drawn to pretty things, like a moth to a flame. Generally, you have the attention span of a goldfish, but you also have an excellent aesthetic appreciation for the more beautiful parts of life. Not many things are visually engaging enough to snag your attention, but humans? Humans are beautiful. 

Well. Humans, and Quinn.

 

You look at Rachel, look at her sad, guilty, enlightened eyes, and sigh. “You shouldn't stick with that absolute fuckwad Finn, you know. You could do a whole lot better.”

“Could I really?”

“The guy pretty much stuck you with the blame for literally all the sins of humanity,” you point out. “Yeah, I can think that you could find somebody who's less of a dick.”

Rachel snorts. “I don't know if you've noticed yet, but he is literally the only man in the world,” she rebutts, mimicking your sarcastic tone to a rather frightening degree of accuracy. “So, no, I really don't think I can do better.”

“There's always me,” you say, and it's supposed to come out confident, drawling, self-assured, but instead it comes out tentative, and weirdly hopeful. Rachel just sighs again.

“Sorry,” she says, “But you completely ruined my life and the lives of all my future children, so you'll forgive me if I can't quite muster up the magnanimity to get past that quite yet.”

You do understand, actually, but you are still a demon, and so you just smirk as evilly as you possibly can before telling her, “I don't forgive anybody for anything.” And if the slight sadness in her eyes makes your heart ache inside, nobody else ever has to know. That'll go away soon, you tell yourself. You're sure you'll harden up eventually.

And, eventually, you do.

 

You meet Quinn later. 

It's not that long a story. Well, your meeting isn't. The rest of your story is just about the longest one there is.

 

“Why are there so many snakes in Ireland?” you whine, draping yourself over Quinn's shoulder. “It's ecologically unlikely, and those things are fucking creepy. Can't you get rid of them?”

“Can't you do it yourself?”

“I'm a demon, we're supposed to encourage infestations of dangerous, weird animals.”

You feel Quinn smile. “I kind of like the snakes. They remind me of the way you used to be.”

You stiffen. “Well,” you snap, “I'm not like that anymore, and I don't like being reminded of how I was.”

Quinn is silent, and she strokes your hair softly for a moment. You're surprised by how much you like it.

“Please,” you say quietly, “For me?”

Quinn sighs. “I'm sure I can arrange some sort of miracle,” she replies. “There's this kid Rory who could do with some sainthood. Maybe we can make it a holiday, it's been getting kind of boring between Christmas and Easter.”

“You realize that if you do such a thing, I'll only corrupt it into a day reserved exclusively for rampant alcoholism and debauchery,” you murmur back, and Quinn laughs. “My eternal thanks only go so far.”

“I know,” she says mischievously, “Did you ever consider that I was counting on that fact? Even angels need to get drunk sometimes.”

 

“Cheat on her,” you tell Will Schuespeare, as you inspect your hair for split ends. “Your wife's a fucking bitch, and that redhead is smoking hot. Come on, you know you want to.”

“My heart does feel the pull of temptation,” William Schuester says, coughing delicately, “But my wife is now at last with child. Aye, it would be cruel and heartless to leave her, especially in her time of need.”

“Eh, save it for confessional,” you snort.

“Nay, I belong to the Church of England,” Will retorts stiffly. You ignore him. He's pretty weird.

“Your wife's a bitch,” you repeat. “She's not really pregnant. She's faking it.”

Will blinks. “'Tis the most absurd thing that I have heard,” he says indignantly, adjusting his waistcoat. “Why on earth would Terri do such a thing?”

“I don't know,” you drawl sarcastically, rolling your eyes, “Terri is, after all, known for her rational decision-making skills and her preternaturally calm demeanor.”

Will pauses. His face pales as he thinks about his wife and realizes that she's completely fucking crazy.

“When I pass, my displeasure shall be known,” Will declares, “As I shall leave her my second-best bed.”

“Whatever gets your rocks off,” you agree, “Just make sure to bang that redheaded chick, okay?”

Will frowns. “But now I fear she shan't wish to bed me,” he points out, which is a fair point. You would certainly never fuck Will, literary genius that he is, and you cannot imagine why anybody in their right mind would ever want to. Admittedly, Emma isn't at all in her right mind, but she's the sort of crazy that makes her less likely to screw Shuespeare, not more.

“So write her a fucking sonnet,” you suggest. “Go- Luc- somebody knows you've already written plenty of shit like that. Just compare her to a summer's day or something.”

“Compare my Emma to a summer's day? But she is more lovely and more temperate.”

“Yeah, that'll work,” you say encouragingly, “And maybe try and add that that thing you just said in there somewhere, it's not half bad.”

 

You've always been drawn to Quinn, to her purity and her beauty and to the fact that she is whole wherever you are broken. Sometimes you think you love her, until you remember that you're a demon, and demons can't love anything, not chocolate, not cats, not even themselves, and certainly not angels.

 

“I've done it!” Quinn says triumphantly, “I've created an incorruptible hero!”

“I doubt that,” you say lazily, leaning back on your straw mattress. “Who is it? That Merlin kid?”

“'That Merlin kid' is sixty-five now,” Quinn points out tartly. “I think you need to stop sleeping the years away, Santana. It's not like we even need to; I can't imagine why you waste the time.”

“It's fun,” you say, retreading the already well-worn path of the familiar argument, offering Quinn a lopsided smirk before taking her bait. “Fine, then. If not the Merlin kid, then who?”

“Artie Pendragon,” she declares proudly.

You snort cruelly. “He can't walk,” you point out. “Why does it even matter that he's incorruptible? He can't walk.”

“Don't be cruel,” Quinn sniffs, “Because if you are mean then he'll have to stab you with his awesome magical sword.”

“Oh?” You ask, eyebrow raised. “Where'd you get a magical sword, darling? I thought you gave yours away.”

“I found it!” Quinn said happily. “It was in a lake somewhere, so I stuck it in a stone and then Artie pulled it out again, and now he's king of Camelot!”

“You are the stupidest angel I have ever met,” you sigh, but maybe there's a little more fondness in your tone than usual. “I'm pretty sure you're supposed to hang on to the sword.”

Quinn waves an elegant hand dismissively. “Whatever. Artie's fantastic.”

The sanctimonious look on Quinn's face makes your stomach turn. You feel that boiling rage that's a large part of the reason you're a demon at all bubble up within you, and you turn on your heel to stalk away from Quinn, looking for Artie.

“What are you doing?” Quinn asks, but she should know better than to ask by now.

“Corrupting the king of Camelot,” you say snarkily. You're there, next to Artie, the instant you remember that you have bitchin' demon powers and don't have to walk around like a common human, and you look at him. “Hey, kid. Wanna have sex?”

He turns a lovely shade of magenta. “What?” he stammers. “Who are you? What are you doing here? Did you just proposition me?”

“I'm Santana, your worst nightmare,” you answer drolly, “And I'm here to get you laid. Although, I will decidedly not be the one fucking you; the question was more academic than anything.”

Artie swallows nervously. “I...ah...already have a fiancee,” he points out tentatively. “And if you're my worst nightmare, I don't know why I would ever take romantic pointers from you.”

You look at him again, reassessing. “Huh,” you exhale, “That was pretty damn astute. Kudos to you, Arthur.”

“Thank you?” Artie responds hesitantly.

“Your fiancee is shacking up with your best friend,” you inform him, inspecting your nails for chips.

“What? Tina and Mike? You're making that up,” Artie protests.

“Really? I am?” You counter. “All right, you're the expert, I'm sure that right now they're just … talking.”

Artie swallows, but sticks to his guns. “I can't believe she would ever cheat on me,” he says loyally, and you would be mildly impressed if not for the fact that he is completely wrong.

“No, she is,” you say, “But it's okay. She's much better with Mike than she ever was with you. And I'm sure you'll work something out: try that Sugar Morganotta girl for me, okay?”

You don't stick around to watch Artie's face change, you just go right back to Quinn and smirk at her. She looks at you fondly. “That was nice of you,” she says softly, “He needed to know, and that Sugar girl could be good for him.”

You look back at her, and for the first time in centuries, you feel a little bit guilty when you tell Quinn, “Sugar is his half-sister,” before you vanish in a puff of smoke.

 

Demons aren't supposed to care, but you do. You care so much. You love people, love the way that they're unexpectedly brilliant or evil or kind. Sometimes they make you smile with how wonderful they are. Sometimes they make you sick. 

 

“Hey, Sam,” you say, clapping him on the shoulder, “Congrats on the whole heresy thing. I love me some good blasphemy.”

He glares at you. “Shut up,” he growls, “I was just trying to do science, okay? All I wanted was to study the stars, and now I'm under house arrest, so get the hell away from me, please.”

“Hey,” you point out, “It wasn't my fault at all.”

“True,” Sam acknowledges. “Where's that blonde chick?”

“Sorry,” Quinn says from behind him, “But if you wanted to continue working, you shouldn't have insulted the pope.”

“I totally didn't!” Sam protests. “Hey, you're an angel, can't you do something? You're like their boss; can't you make them stop?”

“Sorry, Sam,” Quinn says, “But I just can't support you any more. It wouldn't be right, what with the heresy and all.”

Sam sighs, frustrated and furious. “Get the hell away from me,” he snarls. “You were on my side the whole time, and now that somebody arbitrarily decided I'm doing something wrong, you abandon me? Even though you know I'm innocent?”

“I'm sorry, Samueleo Samuelei,” Quinn says primly, “But our association is over.”

Sam screams in rage. It's an angry noise, a broken noise, a raw animal noise, and you love it. 

“Yeah, that's it,” you say encouragingly, “Get it all out.”

“Oh, shut up,” he tells you.

“No, no, I'm being serious,” you say, “Anger is a perfectly healthy emotion. Try smashing things, that always helps me. Maybe drop them from tall heights, that's always a fun afternoon.”

“I'm under house arrest, and I live on the ground floor,” Sam points out.

You smile. “If you promise to keep being a heretic, I'll sneak you into the tower of Pisa,” you offer, and Sam grins.

“Done,” he agrees, and you fist-bump. Your friendship is a beautiful thing.

 

“Why do you still expect anything of me?” you ask Quinn, heatedly. “All I ever do is let you down, and all you ever do is sigh and move on to the next person waiting to be saved. Why are you still surprised when I do exactly what I've always done before?”

“Because I want you to change,” Quinn cries, “Even though I know you won't.”

“I'm a demon,” you protest. “I have to be this way. It's who I am!”

Quinn looks at you with celestial-blue eyes reddened from weeping, and snorts inelegantly. “No, it's not. You walk around tempting people and pretending to be super-evil, but I know you. You're not this hard shell of a person that you project all the time. Even if you don't like people very much, you care about them, about what happens to them - and then you go and do something horrible even though you don't really want to, even though that's not who you really are. Why do you have to be so awful all the time? Why can't you just stop?”

You look at Quinn, see her slim shoulders and her golden halo of hair, and see the vaguest outline of her wings behind her, pale pearly gray in the afternoon sun, and sigh. “I would've stopped anytime,” you say, softly, “If you'd only asked.”

You don't want to look at her, because seeing her face, her stunned expression, would be confirming what you've just said, would be acknowledging everything left unsaid that you both feel. You don't want to look at Quinn, but you do.

You lift your chin up, and you meet her eyes, and you smile.

Quinn doesn't smile back. 

Usually, when things get hard, you run; you cut your losses and leave her behind to clean up your mess. It's the way things are, the way things are meant to be.

Not this time. This time, you stay, watching, waiting, and you let Quinn be the one to grip your hand tightly before flashing away.

You're alone now, but you don't feel abandoned. You feel free.

 

“What are you doing?” Quinn screeches. “Why are you here? Santana, stay out of this!”

“I'm just watching,” you reply lazily, “I won't interfere.”

Brittany smiles. “Lord Tubbington says that God says that France must be freed from its oppressors,” she says cheerfully. You and Quinn both look at her. Then Quinn looks at you. Accusingly.

“I told you, I'm just watching,” you repeat hastily, “I don't know what she's talking about.”

“No, that's our side,” Quinn answers heavily. “I just wanted to give her a couple of heavenly visions but something must have gone wrong. I thought it might have been you, but I'm starting to wonder if the Metatron didn't just go a little overboard with the divine voices and all.”

“No,” Brittany says matter-of-factly, “I'm just special.”

You both stop and stare at her. She continues, “I know you think you made me crazy by letting me talk to God, but don't worry. I've always been special, you didn't break me or anything. So, I have to reclaim France from the English, right? I can do that.”

Your jaw drops. “Oh, come on!” you protest to Quinn. “How come your side gets her? I want Brittany of Arc, she's awesome.”

“Oh, please, Santana,” Quinn scoffs, “Have you ever met anyone less evil in your entire life?”

“Jesus,” you suggest, but Quinn refuses to acknowledge that remark. Besides, Quinn is right. Brittany burns bright, like a candle, a wildfire, a supernova, and you are drawn to her like a moth to a flame. She has a lightness to her, a pure innate happiness that is undeniably magnetic. You know that if you get too close to her, one of two things will happen: either your immorality will tarnish her, or her pureness will incinerate you.

For the first time in forever, you don't want to ruin something pure. In fact, you almost want to let her set you on fire, if only to feel something again. More than anything specific, though, you just want. You want to hold her, touch her, kiss her – as a demon, lust is part of the job description, but this is more than that, deeper than that. You want to link your fingers together as you walk together along garden paths, you want to sip wine together and watch the sun set over the sea together and lick a long stripe up Brittany's elegant neck. You want to dance together in the rain, and sing together in the pre-dawn twilight, and laugh together in the bright noon sunshine. You want to feel her eyelashes flicker across your cheeks like butterfly wings, you want to press the sharp angles of your hips together so that they bruise exquisitely, you want to claim her and be claimed in turn and you want to grow old together. You want to sit together on a porch somewhere with gray hair and wrinkles and creaky joints and wait peacefully, lovingly for death. Together.

For yourself, you gave up being an angel. For Brittany, you would give up everything, ever. You would die for her. You want to die for her. You love her, so much.

Brittany smiles. “I'm going to go save France now, okay?”

You whirl and look at her, and you can feel the fire literally burning behind your eyes. “You can't leave me,” you whine. “I love you.”

“You love the idea of me,” Brittany corrects gently, “And you can't control what I do. It's my own choice.”

You know she's right, which makes it hard to feel justified in begging. You do it anyway.

“You're going to destroy her,” you snap at Quinn. “You're going to take her and use her and then drop her like she's trash and let the world chew her up and spit her out. You can't just treat people like tools like this, okay? They're special. She's special.” You turn to Brittany, and widen your eyes, pleading with her, begging, groveling. “Britt, please. You don't have to do this. Come with me, and you can have anything you could ever want. Come with me, and you'll be safe.”

“There's more to life than being safe, you know,” she says, and smiles. There's no regret in it, only joy, and your heart breaks a little as she turns her back and starts walking into the sun, away from you and towards her future, towards her end.

 

Sometimes you hate Quinn. Actually, that's not true; you hate absolutely everything in the world except Quinn. Some days you just forget why you don't hate Quinn along with the rest of it, mostly on days where Quinn destroys absolutely everything you ever wanted with a flip of her blonde hair and a gleaming, perfect smile.

It seems strange, but in some ways you're jealous of her, jealous of the way she never Fell. You remember the way the rules of heaven felt like they were choking you to death, but Quinn doesn't seem to feel their bindings, even as you slowly strangle in your slightly looser noose. You like the comparative freedom of being a demon, but it's not enough, it's never enough. Nothing will ever be enough.

 

“What did you do?” Quinn snaps. “I know that the whole temptation of humanity debacle was your fault. I want to know what you did this time.”

“We all want a lot of things,” you reply, tossing an apple casually into the air. “And I didn't do anything, not really; not then, not now.”

“Don't be like that,” Quinn says back, wearier than before. “You're responsible for the corruption of the human race, don't play innocent. Tell me what you've done to make the Metatron keep talking about the apocalypse.”

You cough, awkwardly. “Okay,” you hedge, that might have been me. Somewhat. I was just following orders, okay!”

Quinn looks at you with her eyes, and you shuffle awkwardly. “I may have … delivered the anti-Christ to Earth,” you blurt, wincing. “No big deal.”

“Where is he?” 

“Yeah, about that... I may have lost Kurt. Slightly.”

Quinn closes her eyes. Angels can't get exhausted, you tell yourself, but Quinn still looks like she could use a good night's sleep. “I can't believe you lost the anti-Christ,” she mutters. “And I can't believe you named him Kurt. He's evil incarnate, not a von Trapp. Oh my God, you lost him; the world could be ending and we wouldn't even know!”

“I think we'd figure it out,” you point out, but Quinn just glares at you.

“This is all your fault,” she snaps. “You were responsible for ruining humanity, and now you're responsible for ending it. I hope you're happy.”

You feel your spine straighten, and you square your shoulders instinctively before responding. “I didn't lose the boy,” you say adamantly. “I let his foster parents take him home. Even if he's evil incarnate, I figured he still deserves a chance at a half-decent life, okay?”

Quinn looks back at you, sad, and you take a deep breath before continuing. “Look,” you add, lowering your voice, “Maybe you'll be able to bring judgment upon us anyway. I know you angels, always looking for an excuse to smite the demons. Your side has been itching for a war for a long time; our side just gave you an excuse to start one. The thing is, everyone else might want a war, but I don't. If the kid gets a couple happy years in peace, that only means that we get a couple extra years too. I'm only buying time before everything ends and I can never see this world again, never see you again.”

You're a demon, and you don't respect anything, let alone the privacy of angels, but something about this moment makes you uncomfortable; something about the way Quinn leans forward and rests her shining gold head in her hands seem far too personal for you to witness. You want to leave, desperately, and so you're just getting up to slither away when you hear Quinn sob.

It's a sad noise, a harsh strangled choking sob that sounds like it tears her open to the very core. “Why?” she bites out, furious, “Why did it have to be now? Why did they have to make an apocalypse now, just when I was finally getting used to this world, just when I was getting used to you?”

A thousand years ago you would have laughed then, a harsh laugh, a cruel laugh, with a bit of sadness there that Quinn would never have noticed. But this is now, not then, and so you lay a cautious hand on Quinn's elbow and you just look deep into her eyes and say, “I'm sorry.”

The way her body convulses with tears of grief will stay with you forever.

 

You kiss Quinn once, on a breezy summer afternoon in Spain.

The air tastes like ashes from the Inquisition, and Quinn tastes like strawberries.


End file.
